


Viktor Nikiforov's Birthday Presents

by natika



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Attempt to inject realism, Fluff, Fluffy Angst, Jetlag, M/M, Sharing a Bed, but only vaguely, post-Barcelona
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natika/pseuds/natika
Summary: "Now," says Viktor, hushed and coaxing. They're lying on Yuuri's narrow bed, sides pressed together, hands held uncomfortably tight in the darkness. He thinks he may have crowded Yuuri so neatly against the wall there's no chance of escape. He hopes. "About Nationals..."





	

  
"In Russia," says Victor, heading off the offer of a gift automatically, "we don't celebrate before the actual birthday. We don't really celebrate Christmas, either."

"Oh," says Yuuri, downcast. "I see."

Viktor looks at him pensively. He doesn't trouble to hide his gaze; Yuuri isn't looking up.

I'll think about it later, Viktor decides, and changes the subject.

\--

"Now," says Viktor, hushed and coaxing. They're lying on Yuuri's narrow bed, sides pressed together, hands held uncomfortably tight in the darkness. He thinks he may have crowded Yuuri so neatly against the wall there's no chance of escape. He hopes. "About Nationals..."

"Yours or mine?" Yuuri sounds sleepy, which given he slept the entirety of the flight back from Barcelona seems a little unfair. They'd both lost a lot of sleep the night before the free skate; the night following the free skate there had been neither sleeping nor talking, and as for the night of the banquet, thanks to Phichit - Viktor had photos. Many, many photos.

"Both."

"Viktor," Yuuri whines, "it's three in the morning. I don't think-"

"Minako helped me sort it out," Viktor cuts him off, since time zones following long flights are entirely subjective and he doesn't even know currently what day of the week it is. Wednesday? "While you were flying back from Moscow."

He pauses in anticipation, and isn't disappointed by Yuuri's breathy "Oh!" of horrified realization. "You mean - at the airport - when you said -"

Viktor cuts him off before they can both remember what Yuuri said after that. It's only going to get worse.

"The paperwork's done, you're all set."

(It had been all Minako, in fact, who had made the phone calls and filled in the forms and gone a little overboard on a shovel talk whilst Viktor had a mild existential crisis following Yuuri's free skate - the practicalities would never have occurred to him at all. They were, unavoidably, crowding in now, as much as he tried to push them away.)

"That's good?" Yuuri is trying not to sound grumpy. Viktor takes a moment to find it adorable.

"You can thank me later." He shifts onto his side, tangling his leg over Yuuri's, and buries his nose against the side of Yuuri's neck. They're both sweaty and grimy from a long day of travel, neither of them undressed, neither of them caring to do anything except bask in the privacy of being at home.

"So you're going, that's settled. And I'm going to make my comeback at Russian Nationals," says Viktor, lips muffled against Yuuri's skin, annoyed that he has to intrude on this feeling of home and intimacy, here in the first place he'd ever truly felt it. But there isn't any time now. He needs to lay everything out before Yuuri can get any strange ideas in his head.

Barcelona has blown all his concepts about his relationship with Yuuri out of the water. They love each other, of that much he's certain. Had always been certain - apart from some niggles, those early days in Hasetsu, but looking back on it he can project the certainty in with relative ease. All the other foundations of their relationship, however, have shifted seismically. It's a strange feeling, and in the dark at this bleary jet-lagged hour he presses every inch of his body against Yuuri's in a silent fatalistic plea.

"Good," Yuuri says again, but this time it may as well be an entirely different word, breathy and tinged with awe.

Yuuri already has strange ideas in his head, and Viktor loves him, and the next part of the season is going to be painful.

"Yuuri." Gentle this time, drawing out the vowels, rounded and rolled and Russian, all to cushion the blow. "They're on the same dates."

"Oh - I know," says Yuuri, apparently unbothered. "Yurio made a special point of telling me at the banquet. But it's the only time, isn't it?"

Viktor raises his head and blinks at Yuuri's form in the darkness. Yuuri squeezes his hand. Viktor is getting cramp. He ignores it.

"I can do it," Yuuri vows, and Viktor cannot help but kiss him, missing the target and catching the side of Yuuri's mouth instead, lips grazing. He doesn't bother to correct his aim. It's all Yuuri, every part of him as good as the rest.

"I mean," Yuuri starts to qualify, an all too obvious call for muffling before any hint of the practical or impractical can intrude. Viktor licks the tip of his tongue across Yuuri's lower lip, and then remembers he had, actually, wanted them to talk. Just not too much, not too deeply, not yet.

"Trust Yuri," Viktor murmurs, "did he have anything else to say?"

"Rude," Yuuri mumbles, turning his head a little, but Viktor doesn't let himself be distracted a second time. He braces firm, keeping Yuuri pinned in place.

"What did he say, Yuuri?"

"That you wouldn't get any golden birthday present this year," Yuuri says, reluctant and squashed. "But Viktor..."

(Viktor does not want to think about how much he has pissed off a large proportion of the Russian skating federation by running off to reinvent himself as Yuuri's coach. So he doesn't. He can rely on Yakov to pull strings and do all the necessary yelling to get him into the competition. The opportunity for him to be coach to the top two senior men's skaters in Russia is too much of a lure. After that it's down to the whims of the judges.)

"I don't celebrate my birthday," says Viktor, "Too busy skating." He knows it sounds curt, so then he laughs, "I forget everyone else's, why not mine too?"

"You didn't forget mine," Yuuri persists, willing to be sidetracked. Viktor doesn't need to close his eyes, the darkness around him is vivid with that memory.

("I had a new version of Stammi Vicino recorded." For you. For us.

He's never enjoyed a day of skating more in his life.)

"Your mother talked of nothing else for weeks," Viktor lies airily, "I couldn't help it."

And then he finds himself flat on his back with Yuuri sprawled on top of him. It's so sudden he doesn't even have time to gasp.

Yuuri doesn't try to fix him into any position, just sprawls over him like a tangled blanket. "I hope you have a bigger bed than this in Russia." And Viktor should have known Yuuri would be at least one step ahead of him, with that mind of his that won't turn off. He runs his free hand across Yuuri's back, presses down through layers of shirt and sweater.

"Enormous," Viktor promises, resigned. "But if you don't like it, we'll get a new one."

Yuuri starts brushing Victor's hair away from his face, and even in the dark, Viktor feels exposed. "I bet Makkachin wouldn't forgive that."

"He definitely won't forgive me if you're not there," Viktor pushes the heel of his hand into the small of Yuuri's back and is rewarded with a shaky rush of breath. He tries to get back on track. "Yuri's wrong, though. You're going to bring me a gold medal at the very least, aren't you?"

Yuuri shifts his grasp on their still-joined hands to rub one finger across the ring Victor wears. "Do nationals -?"

"Only for birthday presents," says Viktor, because that would be too easy, "only if they're won by Yuuri Katsuki."

Yuuri huffs, not really a laugh, but content. "I'll make katsudon for you in St Petersburg."

Viktor's sigh is not quite as relaxed, but it's answer enough, and after a minute or two Yuuri's breathing evens out into sleep, the sound warm and delicious in Viktor's ear.

Viktor replays the conversation, Yuuri's words all tired and honest, while he choreographs swirls and spins around each gentle inhale and exhale. He is not at all surprised, when he sinks into drowsiness, to find he's picturing Yuuri skating the routines in his head.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Russian and Japanese Nationals nearly always fall on the same week, around (Western) Christmas.   
> Two weeks after the GPF...
> 
> This is the first fic I've written in years. This show, honestly.


End file.
